


the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on

by mersoleil



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dark, Jealousy, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, One-Sided Relationship, POV Jeremiah Valeska, Possessive Behavior, Relationship Study, Sibling Rivalry, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mersoleil/pseuds/mersoleil
Summary: “I have a job as an engineer. I work contract jobs at corporations around Gotham.”“Alongside your schoolwork?” Bruce looks up at him, eyebrows pressed together.Jeremiah nods slowly.“That’s very impressive, Jeremiah.”Jeremiah’s face is hot and he readjusts his glasses. “Thank you, Bruce.” Bruce smiles at him again, and Jeremiah wonders what else he can do to see that relaxed brilliance. Whatever it is, Jeremiah would do it a million times over.And as always, Jerome ruins everything.He comes in through the door, not as aggressive as usual, but maintaining his over enthusiastic demeanor. He sees Bruce and throws his arms out in greeting. “Baby! Sorry, to keep you waiting. I had some business.”Jeremiah must concentrate to steady his shaking hands.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't clear in the tags: Jeremiah/Bruce is not endgame here and there are 0 healthy relationships in this story please do not think I support this kind of behavior.  
> Also, I promise I'm not really bashing Jeremiah, but it might come across that way. Sorry, Jeremiah stans.

Jeremiah is up late studying. He doesn’t know the time, but he recognizes the moon is much higher in the sky than the last time he looked out the window. The sounds of Gotham are keeping him on edge: the sirens, the screams, the honking even at this late hour. Jeremiah has no recollection of a moment in which he was relaxed, but distractions have always seemed a sufficient alternative to tranquility. One semester away from his master’s degree and working two contract jobs, he has enough work to fill his mind, leaving no room for other, distasteful thoughts. 

Almost no room.

He’s losing himself in an almost challenging equation when the door suddenly swings open and loudly slams into the wall, the doorknob fitting itself into an already made dent. Jeremiah’s annoyance swiftly follows his startled jump in the air. It’s _his_ house, Jerome just stays in it, yet all the damage belongs to his sadomasochist for a brother. Despite his frustrations, Jeremiah doesn’t dare say anything.

As he runs in, Jerome is panting and laughing an obnoxiously loud laugh that will undoubtedly wake those who sleep next door and above them in the overcrowded building. Jeremiah slowly counts the beats of his breathing. 

“God, what a _rush_ ,” Jerome rasps out when he is finally able to catch his breath. He sees blood on Jerome’s hands and specks on his face.

Jeremiah looks down and begins collecting his work to move into his room. “You didn’t lead any police officers here, did you?”

“Aw, worried about me? Nah. I’m much quicker than those fat bastards,” Jerome smirks. He saunters to the fridge, opening it. “There’s nothing in here.”

“Go shopping. I’m sure you have the money for it,” Jeremiah says lightly as he slips papers into a folder.

Jerome snickers. “You’re funny.”

“I was not trying to be.”

Jerome’s smile grows; it only ever seems to grow. He closes the fridge and stands over Jeremiah. The moonlight that filters in through the windows creates a reflection against the edges of his brother’s green dress shirt that has the sleeves sloppily rolled to his elbows. Up close Jeremiah sees blood there, too. “Wanna know what I did?” He sounds excited.

“You know I don’t,” Jeremiah mutters as he stands with his work and retreats to his room, leaving the sound of laughter behind him.

Jeremiah does wish the police would arrest Jerome, just when Jeremiah was far enough away to avoid the tribulation.

The next morning, Jeremiah is eating breakfast before heading to class. Jerome comes out of the office that had been converted into a bedroom after he left Arkham Asylum a few years ago. He hops onto the counter in his absurd robe and takes the toast off Jeremiah’s plate. “I met someone last night,” he muses after taking a bite.

Jeremiah sighs, pushes his glasses back into place, and gets up to put a new piece of bread in the toaster. “I told you- I don’t want to know,” he tries to insist.

“Jeez. I’m just trying to gossip like good brothers are supposed to,” Jerome sounds hurt, but Jeremiah knows that the man could not care less about being a good brother. He only likes being near Jeremiah because it is easy to make Jeremiah uncomfortable and convince to do laundry.

“Forget it, Jerome. I have to get to class.” Jeremiah throws some butter on his toast to take with him.

“Fine. Be that way,” Jerome mopes. “I won’t tell you about my absolutely drop-dead gorgeous date tonight.”

“Good,” Jeremiah snaps as he grabs his bag and leaves because he really does not want to know. Jerome can be charming and enrapturing when he wants to be, so Jeremiah is not surprised to hear he has a date. More shocking is that his brother does not attempt to discuss his relationships more frequently, just to make Jeremiah miserable. It is Jerome’s favorite past time, after all.

The weeks following Jerome’s attempt at annoying Jeremiah under the guise of brotherly love include even less Jerome than usual, he notes. Which means Jeremiah’s life continues uneventfully, a fact for which he is extremely grateful.

It is easy for him to lose track of time with the monotonous routine of his life. Most people wouldn’t take much comfort in it, he knows, but the steadiness lulls him into a sense of security. It’s a stark contrast to the circus and Jerome, the wandering voices in Jeremiah’s head. Steady work weeks and graduate school do not tend be terrifyingly spontaneous.

After his Friday classes sometime later, it is close to dinner. He walks home, shying away from every person who bumps into him on the sidewalk. Avoiding all involvement with Jerome, Gotham’s powerful torment, Jeremiah receives none of the benefits of protection. But he also avoids the surely abundant consequences.

Jeremiah gets home quickly, as always. He goes to open his door but hesitates when he hears voices inside. His hand stalls on the handle. It can’t possibly be Jerome. Jerome is rarely at his house before midnight, let alone around dinner time. Panicked thoughts filter through his head: robbers, kidnappers, murderers. It is possible that they’re here for Jerome, but unlikely. Jerome swears to Jeremiah that he is too clever for anyone to know where he sleeps at night, and Jeremiah is inclined to believe him; dull his brother is not, unfortunately.

Then the unmistakable sound of his brother’s laugh reaches him. Anger infiltrates each cell in his body. Jeremiah is surprised that his brother is actually home, or in Jeremiah’s home, and infuriated that Jerome has the audacity to bring one of his associates to _Jeremiah’s_ home.

As an alarming frustration fills him, he pushes the door open, prepared to immediately retreat to his room.

“Jeremiah!” Jerome yells from the sofa.

Coming to an abrupt stop, Jeremiah clenches his fist. He was halfway to his room.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and turns to face his brother and guest and-

Oh _._

The boy, and he does look younger, has dark, curly hair that dramatically contrasts his pale and soft skin, but somehow his eyes are even darker, the kind of dark one stumbles around in, lost, and they hold a steady gaze with Jeremiah that isn’t cold, but isn’t warm, just calm and confident, and unique to anyone whom has ever been in Jeremiah’s life, and Jeremiah notices again how smooth his features are, his posture is relaxed on Jeremiah’s old couch that Jeremiah is just now realizing is not good enough for guests at all, and he has one shoulder touching Jerome’s and-

_Oh?_

“Jeremiah, this is the absolutely stunning date I _must_ have mentioned by now.” It takes Jeremiah a moment to recall what date Jerome had told him about, but once he does, Jeremiah is flooded with disappointment.

Jerome’s looking at Jeremiah in a strange way. It’s the same face Jeremiah sees in the mirror when there is a problem he can’t figure out. It looks strange on Jerome.

The breathtaking man- Jerome’s date- stands up and extends his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Bruce,” he says, and his steady voice is just as captivating. As Bruce leans forward, his sweater collar falls under his collarbone. Jeremiah’s eyes are immediately drawn to it, but just as quickly he tears them away. He’s covered in dark marks and bruises. Shaped like teeth. 

Jeremiah startles when he remembers he’s supposed to shake Bruce’s hand, and rushes to do so. “Oh, um, likewise. Jeremiah.” Bruce’s eyes crinkle with a smile. Jeremiah smiles back.

The moment is interrupted by Jerome’s short laugh. When he looks over to Jerome, his arms are thrown over the back of the couch like this is his kingdom to rule and not the small living room of Jeremiah’s home. He sees Jerome’s expression has turned back into the self-possessed, amused thing it always is. He completed the puzzle he had been deciphering earlier.

And Jeremiah isn’t stupid enough to not have figured it out either.

“Bruce also goes to Gotham U,” Jerome, the bastard in every meaning of the word, drawls. 

“Oh?” Jeremiah’s voice is quiet. “Wh-what do you study?”

Bruce has both hands in his jean pockets, casually looking at Jeremiah like this interaction isn’t going to change Jeremiah forever. “I’m in my third year, business management. And you?”

“I am in a graduate program for, uh,” out of the corner of his eye, Jeremiah sees Jerome smirk, “engineering.”

“Engineering? That’s fascinating. I find the type of people who go into that kind of work are always extremely sensible. I wouldn’t even know where to start with that sort of thing.”

Jeremiah doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never been an expert at social interactions, but it’s much worse now.

He’s denied the chance to respond when Jerome stands up and throws an arm over Bruce’s shoulder. To Jeremiah’s intense dismay, the younger man lets him. “My brother’s got enough skill to have a contract with every low life who thinks they’re the one running Gotham’s criminal underground. Ya know, bombs n stuff are a highly sought after demand. But he wastes his time just like you, Brucie, choosing to go to _school_.” He says it like a child mocking him on the playground.

“Aren’t _you_ a low life who thinks he runs Gotham’s criminal underground?” Bruce accuses, eyebrows raised, sounding strangely unimpressed. Bruce’s lips are close enough to Jerome’s ear to make Jeremiah squirm.

Jerome smiles wide and turns to look at Bruce who is just barely an inch shorter than him. Their lips are almost touching. “ _Darlin’_ , you and I both know I am _much_ more than _that_.”

Jerome and Bruce stare at each other, close and intimate.

It’s perilous.

Jeremiah can’t decipher whether the words are threatening or flirtatious, if the way they’re looking at one another now is better described as a challenge or a tease.

It makes Jeremiah feel like he can’t breathe, the way his chest tightens.

He is unsure how, but he finally finds it in himself to say something. “I should be getting to work.”

Bruce turns to look at him, but Jerome doesn’t. His eyes are lidded and trained on Bruce. “Of course. Excuse me. We should be heading out, as well. It was great meeting you, Jeremiah.”

An unfamiliar heat rises to his cheeks as Bruce says his name. “Uh, likewise, Bruce.”

“I hope to speak to you again sometime,” Bruce says genuinely, and it is far too much for Jeremiah, so he just tries to smile, then heads back to his room.

He does exactly none of his work.

Later that night Jeremiah is in the kitchen getting water in the hopes that it will help clear what has possessed him when Jerome comes through the front door without any attempt at grace.

“Ah, good evening, brother!” Jerome exclaims.

“Jerome,” Jeremiah greets dryly.

He suddenly recognizes the energy in the air shift to something familiar. Jeremiah tries to get to his room, but Jerome cuts him off.

“Move, Jerome.”

“You like him,” he mocks.

“I could not possibly know what you are talking about.”

“You think he’s pretty.”

“Seriously, Jerome, move.”

That makes Jerome cackle. “Or what?”

Jeremiah’s eyes are trained on the ground, and he pushes his glasses up his nose in response.

“You’re not very subtle, ya know? That’s okay. I’m not either. Must run in the family, mom was that way, too. It’s a good thing Bruce likes it.”

Jeremiah’s blood is boiling. “I do _not_ like him.”

“Right,” Jerome says it with a nod and exaggerated wink. He finally pushes himself off the door frame and moves away, but he has successfully riled Jeremiah up. He shouldn’t allow himself to stoop to Jerome’s level, he knows. He doesn’t very often. Hasn’t in years.

But something is different this time, and he turns to where Jerome is rummaging through the cabinets.

“You know I don’t want people at the house. It’s basically the one thing you’ve agreed to. Why did you bring him over?” Jeremiah doesn’t know what he is doing. Changing the subject, grasping at straws, picking a fight, he doesn’t know, but he can’t resist.

“Please,” Jerome doesn’t look at him, but he smirks. “You’re glad you got a chance to check out that hot piece of ass.” Jeremiah clenches his jaw. “And _because_ he’s a real classy guy. I can’t keep takin’ a nice boy like him out to speakeasy dinners and walkin’ him to the back alley for the after-dinner show.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Bruce doesn’t think so,” Jerome giggles and Jeremiah cringes.

“Don’t bring him over again.”

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do.”

It is a miracle Jeremiah doesn’t slam his door behind him.

Bruce seems to have taken up a permanent residence in Jeremiah’s mind, and he is a bizarre mix of relieved and unnerved when he has his next encounter with Bruce just a couple days later. The sun is setting again when there’s a knock on the door. He looks out the small hole and scrambles to unlock and open it. “Bruce,” he says it as surprised as he feels.

“Jeremiah. Hi,” Bruce smiles at him. “Is Jerome in? We were supposed to meet here tonight.”

Jeremiah aches.

“Uh, no, he hasn’t been here all day. But please come in.” He steps aside to let Bruce in and hates himself every second for it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bruce says as he steps inside. He brushes past Jeremiah, almost touching him.

“It’s not a problem,” Jeremiah lies.

“I should have shown up late anyways, knowing Jerome.”

Jeremiah would never keep Bruce waiting. “Um, yeah, he isn’t very reliable. I don’t ever know where he is. Sorry I can’t be more help.”

He watches as Bruce’s eyes catch on to something behind him. Jeremiah turns to see what it is, forgetting he had left the tv on in attempt to drown out Gotham while he worked. A news channel is playing, the text at the bottom of the screen reporting breaking news. Six different banks have been robbed and` set ablaze simultaneously. The news footage shows one of them half burnt as firefighters rush to put out the remaining flames. Familiar graffiti covers the few still standing walls.

“Well, now all of Gotham knows where he is,” Bruce states, quiet.

Jeremiah winces at the loud reminder that he shares blood with one of the worst of Gotham’s many nightmares. He reaches for the remote, turning it off and moves to the dining table, where he has papers and blueprints from work spread out.

“You are more than welcome to wait here for Jerome. I don’t know when he’ll be back, but I don’t mind.” Jeremiah avoids Bruce’s gaze.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Bruce responds sincerely. The younger man slowly moves to where Jeremiah is. “May I ask what you are doing?”

Jeremiah’s head snaps up. Bruce is studying his work with intent, and he becomes lightheaded from this sort of attention. The moment resembles that of an unrealized addict taking their cataclysmic drink. They’re close enough that Jeremiah can smell Bruce’s cologne. Clean and rich, it’s nothing short of intoxicating.

“I have a job as an engineer. I work contract jobs at corporations around Gotham.”

“Alongside your schoolwork?” Bruce looks up at him, eyebrows pressed together.

Jeremiah nods slowly.

“That’s very impressive, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah’s face is hot and he readjusts his glasses. “Thank you, Bruce.” Bruce smiles at him again, and Jeremiah wonders what else he can do to see that relaxed brilliance. Whatever it is, Jeremiah would do it a million times over.

And as always, Jerome ruins everything.

He comes in through the door, not as aggressive as usual, but maintaining his over enthusiastic demeanor. He sees Bruce and throws his arms out in greeting. “Baby! Sorry, to keep you waiting. I had some business.”

Jeremiah must concentrate to steady his shaking hands.

“Yes. I saw,” Bruce says in a tight voice.

Never ceasing to be immature, Jerome makes a childish face like he’s pouting. “Aw, don’t be like that, doll. A man’s gotta make a living.”

Bruce turns away from Jerome, looking back down at Jeremiah’s work. He watches his brother’s face drop, slowly shifting into something hostile. It’s due to the lack of attention, no doubt. Something in Jeremiah celebrates while something else cowers from that well-known threat.

“Were there people in the buildings?” Bruce asks, tone deliberately composed.

“How am I supposed to keep track?” Jerome responds, irritated.

“Were there?” Bruce insists.

“It was after closing time.”

“Jerome!” Bruce shouts, whirling back around. It makes Jeremiah jump.

Bruce had been so nonchalant and poised, well put together, that seeing the outburst is more than alarming.

Yet something about the way Bruce wears unpredictability is not ill-fitting.

While Jeremiah watches Bruce with confusion, Jerome’s lips turn back up into an inappropriate imitation of pleasure. “No more than a guard or two… in each building, of course”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Damn it, Jerome,” Bruce heads towards the door and something tugs in Jeremiah’s chest. Before he gets too far, Jerome catches Bruce by the shoulders.

“Baby, baby, baby, _baby_ ,” he says as he holds Bruce in front of him. “Tell me how to make it up to you.”

“You can’t,” Bruce snaps.

But he lets Jerome hold him.

Jeremiah looks down at his work.

“C’mon, Bruce. Anything.”

“You killed-”

“Well, technically it wasn’t me, I just gave the orders… okay, I see how _maybe_ I had something to do with it.”

“You’re despicable.”

“Bruce…”

At Jerome’s soft tone, Jeremiah casts his eyes back up. He sees Jerome still holding Bruce, one of his thumbs reaching over to stroke the side of Bruce’s throat slowly.

Jeremiah sees Bruce’s jaw take time to unclench as they stare at one another. “Donate the money,” he demands.

Jerome groans, rolling his eyes before looking back at Bruce. “Something else.”

“No. That’s what I want.”

“Bruce, darlin’, a man like me can’t risk gaining that kind of charitable reputation.”

“I’m sure it won’t dissuade your obsessed lackeys too much.”

“I was really hoping you would say something sexy like-”

Bruce, smooth and confident, moves closer to Jerome, reaches up and wraps his arms around Jerome’s neck. Jeremiah wants to look away again but innate curiosity in the grotesque makes him watch. Jerome’s hands, as he is silenced, slide down to rest on the other’s hips.

“I thought you said you’d do anything for me,” Bruce mutters.

Jerome’s voice has lowered to match Bruce’s, and it sounds rough when he corrects with a smile, “ _Almost_ anything”.

Jeremiah imagines interrupting and telling Bruce that _he_ would truly do anything Bruce requested.

“Do this for me. Please, Jerome.”

Bruce looks up at Jerome through his eyelashes and Jeremiah’s hands shake and his chest hurts and his face is warm as he watches Bruce lean over and press his and Jerome’s lips together. Jerome is quick to turn it into something intense and gross, pulling Bruce close by the hips, pressing their bodies together, slipping his tongue in the other’s mouth.

Bruce’s hands move to pull at Jerome’s hair, reciprocating.

Jeremiah doesn’t know what to do. He _hates_ watching his brother with Bruce. Bruce who _is_ drop-dead gorgeous and who is so kind to Jeremiah. He finds Jeremiah impressive, not annoying, or strange. And he seems so secure and calm, things that have been forbidden to Jeremiah. He wants to be around Bruce and touch Bruce like Jerome does but with infinitely more care because Bruce is so incredibly unique.

It is impossible that Jerome could ever appreciate what he has. Jerome shouldn’t even want to be with someone like Bruce. While confounding, Jeremiah is far more perplexed by what makes Bruce want _him_.

Then Bruce’s outburst and the way it looked so natural filters into Jeremiah’s mind, but he easily pushes it away. It was a normal reaction to the situation, and it doesn’t matter how natural it looked on the man.

Bruce finally pulls away from Jerome. “Can we… may we go to your room?” He’s breathless.

Jerome looks frustrated when the younger man pulls away, but he casts his eyes to the side, acknowledging Jeremiah for the first time. Jeremiah, whose body is rigid, and face is red with a repressed anger.

Jerome smiles and winks at him. Jeremiah is grateful that Bruce is too busy toying with Jerome’s shirt collar to notice.

“Absolutely, my dear,” Jerome enthusiastically agrees, dragging Bruce to his room.

Right before they’re gone, Bruce turns around and hastily says, “It was nice talking to you again, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah can’t think of anything to say, but he hears before the door closes, “Your manners are the most infuriating thing about you.”

“I can think of a few things that are far worse.”

Then the door closes, and Jeremiah stands motionless. He and frustration are on familiar terms, but frustration mixed with longing is a tragic combination he is discovering. And it’s only made worse by his inability to justify his brother’s and Bruce’s relationship. Justification is logical, and logic is grounding. Without that, Jeremiah fears where his thoughts will lead him.

A few minutes later and Jeremiah begins to hear muffled sounds from Jerome’s room – muffled, but unmistakable. The walls are just thin enough that Jeremiah can definitively make out that the moans are coming from Bruce. His face burns red again, and the first thought he has is to go to his room as usual. But he doesn’t move. His eyes remain down, directed at his work, but not seeing it. His imagination wanders, indignantly thinking about what could be happening to make those noises come from Bruce; the ways Jerome gets to be caressing him with his hands and his lips and his tongue, laying Bruce out beneath him, admiring every inch of the brunet. It makes Jeremiah nauseous. Shame persistently bubbles underneath his skin. He shouldn’t think about it. It’s not decent and doing so just makes him feel a jealousy more intense than all the other times Jerome got something he didn’t deserve.

Even as he is disgusted with himself and his animosity for Jerome reaches unmatched levels and he gets uncomfortably hard, Jeremiah doesn’t move from his stance at the table until he hears a loud “fuck, Jerome!” many minutes later. He goes to his room and, this time, he can’t help but slam the door behind him.

The next night, while working and watching the news in an empty house, Jeremiah is shocked to hear that close to a million dollars had been dumped throughout the streets of Gotham from the previous day’s robberies.

Jeremiah’s encounters with Bruce become increasingly difficult to withstand, the seventh time especially so.

The encounters before had been just as short as the first two. Sometimes Jerome and Bruce are fighting, sometimes their flirting. Bruce casually asks Jeremiah about his work and his day while waiting for Jerome or before being carted off to Jerome’s room. Jeremiah can never quite figure out how to ask Bruce questions about himself, however, and it’s starting to grate on his nerves. Bruce is important to Jeremiah, and Jeremiah craves knowing everything about him, more intimately than anyone else. Currently, Jeremiah is limited to simple observations. He’s failing.

Jerome becomes worse, as well. Jeremiah is aware that Bruce coming over more often is deliberate, and once Bruce is gone, Jerome says some teasing, snide comment. It’s another way for Jerome to have power, to push Jeremiah to his own breaking point, to drive Jeremiah insane. He’s succeeding.

A little over a month after first meeting Bruce, Jeremiah gets back from a brief meeting he had to attend with one of his clients sometime in the late afternoon. When he walks in, he sees the door to Jerome’s room is open. He spares it a glance as he walks by it on the way to his own room. Expecting to find it empty, Jeremiah halts in his tracks when he sees his brother wrapped around Bruce on the cheap platform bed, each of them asleep.

Bruce and Jerome look incredibly different from this perspective. Light filters in through plastic blinds, bathing them both in streaks of sunlight that are rare in Gotham. As if their bodies are rejoicing in the light they haven’t experienced in weeks, Jerome’s hair sparks a lighter orange than it is, and Bruce’s skin glows.

It is easier to notice something than to notice its absence. Now, Jeremiah notices a look of contentment on Bruce’s face that doesn’t exist while he’s awake. In their exchanges, Jeremiah had never gotten the impression that Bruce was guarded. Reserved, perhaps, but not impersonal. Yet, he suddenly has the impression that the unbothered manor in which Bruce presents himself around Jeremiah is meticulously calculated.

That bothers Jeremiah. 

His brother, in contrast, looks significantly less complicated. With his mouth open just slightly, one arm thrown over Bruce’s waist, and the other tucked under his head, Jerome is not threatening. Even the picturesque light makes Jerome Valeska look somewhat domestic. It has been a long time since Jeremiah hasn’t felt intimidated by his brother. The way Jerome lays there so vulnerable and greedily wrapped around the thing Jeremiah wants more than anything allows a thought, an exceptionally dark and dangerous thought, intrude on Jeremiah’s mind. It would be easy. Difficult to justify to Bruce perhaps, but it would satisfy the itch Jeremiah has had for some time and has gotten progressively more irritating in the past month. He spends no more than a second entertaining the idea before silencing it.

Jeremiah falls back from the doorway to set up his usual work spot at the dining room table, resolutely not thinking about Bruce taking a nap in the next room.

Almost an hour later, Jeremiah begins to hear shuffling from Jerome’s room. Purposefully standing in a place at the dining that obstructs his view, Jeremiah can only hear and hypothesize what is happening. When Bruce speaks, it startles him just a little. 

“I heard about what you did last night.” He sounds somber.

“Oh? What’d ya think?” Jerome’s voice is laced with drowsiness, but he’s jovial all the same.

“You didn’t have to do it”

“But I wanted to.”

There’s a still moment.

“I think you’re evil.”

“I prefer enlightened.”

Bruce scoffs, and if Jeremiah weren’t eavesdropping, desperate to learn more, he would have done the same. “No. You’re evil.”

“Well,” Jerome’s voice has lost some of its humor. “You fuck me. What’s that say about you?”

“I wouldn’t if I didn’t know you could stop.”

Jerome snaps, “Is that how you justify it?”

“Don’t.”

“Baby, I’m on the edge of my seat, just dying to hear: how do you justify sleeping with me? A murderer? A madman?”

“Stop it.”

Jeremiah, forever caught between opposing forces, also whishes Jerome would stop, but he continues to listen because every moment brings him closer to the solace he thinks he could find by listening to Bruce a little longer. He still winces as if hit when Jerome speaks next.

“You know that if you bat your pretty eyelashes, spread your legs, and tell me what I want to hear I’ll take a little break from all the terrorizing and torture because you asked oh so sweetly?”

“I don’t tell-”

“What about now? I killed someone last night, Brucie. Violently, blood covering the walls, even more gruesome than I’m sure you heard, and I did it with the same knife I hold to your throat while I fuck you-”

Jeremiah’s pencil snaps in his hand. He had neglected to notice the force he was using to hold it, but now he realizes his whole body is tense. His teeth are clenched so tightly he thinks they’ll crack beneath the pressure.

He decides he can’t keep listening to the words Jerome is saying.

“-and just because the asshole annoyed me a little. But the next day, and here you are, baby! How can you stand it, Bruce?”

Jeremiah coughs loudly, hoping it sounds natural, but knowing it sounds strangled. The silence that follows lacks air to breath.

“Well, Bruce?” Jerome taunts after a long, frozen moment. 

“Jerome,” Bruce’s voice cracks and with it, Jeremiah’s resolve. “Please.”

“What’s the matter, darling, can’t handle the thought of bringin’ pleasure to the local serial killer?” Jeremiah hears more shuffling and then footsteps towards the door. He accidentally meets Bruce’s eyes, which are full of an uncharacteristic ferocity, but Bruce quickly looks away and closes the door.

In a moment of weakness, Jeremiah throws the broken pencil pieces across the room. He breathes out a heavy sigh, pushing a loose piece of hair back into place. The barrier keeps what is happening behind it a secret for only so long before muted shouts and slamming begin to leak through.

An idea seeps into Jeremiah’s mind.

Perhaps this could be the end to the nauseating mock romance he’s been forced to witness over the past month. Bruce could be ending it right now, telling Jerome he is sick and vile, explaining to Jerome that he is undeserving of love, especially love from Bruce. He could be yelling that this was a mistake, it never should have happened, and Bruce is going to move on to make much smarter decisions concerning his relationships – decisions that involve Jeremiah perhaps. The optimism feels like the first breath after being suffocated.

Jeremiah is slightly concerned about the light bangs he hears from beyond the door. Bruce had survived Jerome for months, though, so there’s no reason he couldn’t do it now. He continues to hear two separate voices, which means Jerome hasn’t done anything drastic. He assumes the banging is his childish brother throwing things. Jeremiah decides to wait patiently for the whole fiasco to be over.

He ends up waiting not-so-patiently for three hours and forty-five minutes. The arguing dies down fairly quickly, and almost the entire time is spent in silence. Around nine, the sun long gone, Jeremiah is washing dishes when the door finally opens. He almost breaks a glass in his rush to turn around.

Jerome emerges from the bedroom with a yellowing bruise on the side of his jaw and a split lip that looks grotesque on the wide smile. Jeremiah panics before Bruce comes out, worried he will be in a similar or even worse state. Jeremiah couldn’t live with himself if he allowed Bruce to get hurt while he was on the other side of the wall.

But when Bruce comes out, he looks completely untouched. More than presentable, Bruce wears slacks, a dress shirt, and tie, all in an alluring black that fits him perfectly. It makes Jeremiah’s mouth go dry. He still scans him up and down, frantically, and only on the third time he rakes his eyes down Bruce’s form does he notice blood dried dark on his knuckles. He cocks his head hoping the movement will stir some intelligent thought. Jeremiah works through the problem embarrassingly slow, and when he finally understands the events that have transpired, he is hesitant to believe them.

He jumps as fingers are pushed in front of his eyes, snapping loudly. “Hello?” Jerome is saying, “Anybody home?”

“What?” Jeremiah dumbly falters.

“I _said_ Bruce wants tea. Do you have any?” Despite his knowing eyes, Jerome quips “Jeez, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be an inconvenience,” Bruce says, from behind Jerome’s shoulder like he was dragged out against his will to ask this of Jeremiah. Bruce seems genuinely sorry to be making such a simple request while Jerome has his eyebrows raised, impatient.

“It’s okay. But, uh, no,” Jeremiah’s heart begins to sink. Bruce and Jerome are still very much together. “No, I apologize, I just drink coffee.”

Jerome rolls his eyes. “Will coffee satisfy your affluent cravings, my dear?” Jerome tilts his head back to look at Bruce.

“Tea isn’t expensive, Jerome,” Bruce says, but there’s no heat to it. In fact, there’s a small smile on his face. Jeremiah sees red.

“How would you know? You’ve never been in a grocery store,” Jerome turns to face Bruce directly, gesturing at the other. Jeremiah is far too distracted, and the absurdity of the statement is lost upon him.

“I have too!” Bruce defends himself, still smiling. Jeremiah grips the counter behind him. He tries to make sense of it: the arguing, Bruce hitting Jerome, Jerome not hitting back, and how they are now acting like nothing happened at all. Jeremiah doesn’t know the two men standing before him.

“Really?” Jerome teases. “Okay, let’s play a game.”

“Okay,” Bruce responds to the challenge enthusiastically. It’s fucking adorable. “What do I get if I win?”

“You won’t.”

“What do I get if I do?”

“Hm,” Jerome reaches out to caress Bruce’s cheek with his thumb. If Jeremiah tries hard enough, he can almost feel the soft skin beneath his own hands. “I’ll try to start getting along with your little friend.”

“You could start by using her name.”

Jerome pulls his hand back to wag a finger in Bruce’s face. “ _Ah_ -ah, you haven’t won.”

“Fine. And if you win?”

Jerome lets his smile turn sinister, and he leans close to Bruce. There’s a knife laying in the brown water behind him, Jeremiah unexpectedly remembers. He tries to forget. “I get to do that _thing_ I’ve been asking to do to you.”

Jeremiah can see Bruce swallow from where he stands. “Deal,” he breathes. 

“Alright then!” Jerome, excited, pulls away and moves to hop onto one of the dining chairs. “Welcome to the show, gentleman,” Jerome flouts at Jeremiah with a smirk. “The rules are simple; we ask our lovely volunteer three simple questions regarding grocery prices. If he gets just two points – he wins!”

Jeremiah wants to protest, but he hasn’t argued with Jerome since before Jerome was old enough to learn how to craft the most intimidating of threats, so he stays silent, fuming.

“You look ridiculous,” Bruce lets out a laugh and Jeremiah snaps his head to look at him.

Bruce’s laugh is incredible, unique, and warm, uninhibited in a way that is apparently unlike Bruce. There’s the look of contentment Jeremiah recognizes from earlier except now he is awake and in Jeremiah’s kitchen. If only it weren’t due to the monster in the room. Bruce turns his attention to Jeremiah suddenly. “I’m so sorry,” he offers with a grin.

Jeremiah has no control of his movements as he smiles back at Bruce. He opens his mouth to say something, but Jerome interrupts.

“Hey! Minus five points for being rude.”

Bruce looks affronted. “You can’t do that!”

“Who says?”

“I do!”

“I can’t argue with that. Alright, fine, no point deduction, but let the record show my feelings are tragically decimated.” Bruce laughs again and Jeremiah wishes it were for any other reason. “Are you ready to begin?”

Bruce nods, looking fond, and Jeremiah fantasizes about kicking the chair out from under Jerome.

“Question one: how much is a gallon of milk?”

Bruce takes a second to think with a hum. Everything about him is endearing. Everything except the blood on his knuckles. “Nine dollars,” he says, confident.

Jerome immediately starts cackling. “Nine dollars?!” He gasps, incredulous.

“Hey, don’t laugh!” Bruce says, but he’s joined in anyways.

“You spoiled brat,” Jerome sighs once he has calmed down. Jeremiah recognizes affection in his tone, but that’s impossible. Jerome doesn’t care for anyone. “Completely wrong, zero points. Question two-!”

“Wait, how much is it?” Bruce asks and it takes a beat for Jeremiah to realize Bruce is addressing him.

“Usually no more than four dollars,” he mutters. His mind finally catches up to what is happening. “Do you… not go shopping?” his voice sounds timid compared to Jerome’s obnoxious posturing.

“Oh, don’t you know, brother?” Jerome leans forward, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Brucie is a billionaire. He pays people to shop for him. Not just any billionaire, though. The most important billionaire in the city!”

“I’m sorry?” Jeremiah turns to Bruce. Surely Jerome is trying to be funny. Except Bruce fails to react. He does not look uncomfortable nor arrogant, and he’s not denying the claims, simply listening to Jerome.

“This is Bruce _Wayne_.”

Jeremiah blinks. Then he blinks again. “As in Wayne Enterprises?”

“Bingo!”

Bruce shrugs in Jeremiah’s direction, and Jerome laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen. “What’s question two?”

“A pack of gum,” Jerome projects with flair.

Jeremiah is reeling with more questions than answers. He catches some notable pieces of information as they fly around his head, however. A vague memory stands out the most – Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered what Jeremiah’s thinks must have been over a decade ago, and they left behind their son. Their incredibly handsome, now closed-off, and rich son who spends his afternoons playing pretend trivia with a serial killer.

“Easy, I buy gum. About a dollar and twenty-five cents,” Bruce crosses his arms.

“Wrong!” Jerome immediately boasts. “You lose.”

Fueled by jealousy, and desperation, not wanting Jerome to win something else, Jeremiah finds it in him to speak up. “I’ve bought gum for that much.”

Bruce reaches over and lays a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. The touch is fleeting, gone before Jeremiah can process it, and their skin is separated by a layer of clothing, but it burns like electricity. The tingling sensation conducts itself through Jeremiah to his core, warming him from the outside in then back out again. It feels heavy, meaningful. “ _Thank you_ , Jeremiah. I get a point!” Bruce looks to Jerome.

Jerome gazes at the spot where Bruce’s hand had been before his eyes meet Jeremiah’s, and for the first time in his whole life, Jeremiah thinks he has something to brag about to his brother. “ _Fine_. One point to Bruce. That makes it a tie. Everything riding on what happens next. Final question: how much is a box of tea?”

“That’s way too broad! It depends on the tea,” Bruce tries to argue.

“Answer the question, Bruce.”

Bruce takes a step towards Jerome, looking up at him. “You’re not being very fair,” he says, the corners of his lips turned up slightly.

Jerome swings his leg out to step off the chair, and lands in front of Bruce. “Aw, you didn’t expect me to play fairly, did you?”

Bruce sways nearer to Jerome and further from Jeremiah still. “I suppose I shouldn’t have.”

“It really is no one’s fault but your own,” Jerome agrees. “Do you give up then?”

“Never.”

“Then give me an answer we both know is wrong so I can win.”

Bruce’s smile is teasing. “One thousand dollars,” he says like a brag.

Jerome tuts at him. “You lose.”

The two are regrettably close. While starring at Jerome, Bruce’s face starts to fall, eyebrows furrowing. Quickly, his once brilliant smile is replaced with a frown. His hand comes up, and he delicately places his fingertips on Jerome’s lip. Jeremiah yearns for it.

He strains to hear when Bruce begins, quietly, “I’m really sorry. I-” 

“Oh, none of that, darlin’. I’m basking in the glory of my victory,” Jerome interrupts.

“Jerome, I shouldn’t have-”

Jerome’s smile never abandons him. “Yes, you should have.” Bruce sighs, sounding exasperated; they’ve had this conversation before, Jeremiah can tell. The reminder that Bruce has any interaction outside of him is wretched. Especially one like this. “Besides, I won the game, so I get my prize, and then we can call it even.” A pinkish color spreads across Bruce’s cheeks and his eyes flick to Jeremiah and then shyly away. Jeremiah turns around to continue doing the dishes, making the water hot enough to turn skin red. He hears Jerome chuckle. “Are you free later tonight, darlin’?”

“I could make time,” Bruce’s voice is slow to shift back into a playful one, but the attempt is undeniably there.

“Fantastic! Well, I’m gonna go get ready,” Jerome says with the clap of his hands and returns to his room.

Jeremiah is given the illusion of being alone with Bruce, and he wishes he could make it a reality. Instead, he places the paring knife onto the drying rack.

“Do you need a hand?” Bruce asks, sidling up next to him.

Jeremiah, at this point left with so little to dissuade him from rash decisions, says, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Bruce smiles over at him. Picking up a hanging hand towel he begins to dry things from the rack to make more room.

“So, Bruce _Wayne_ ,” Jeremiah tries. It sounds painfully awkward.

Bruce purses his lips together and nods. “Afraid so,” he says with some polite sounding voice he must use at high society functions, and Jeremiah bites his tongue. He deserves more than that. He deserves the uninhibited laugh he gives Jerome and the teasing tone he allows around the bastard.

“I’m sure that comes with just as many disadvantages as perks,” Jeremiah tries to offer Bruce the opportunity to vent. That’s a bonding experience, he’s heard.

“You’d probably be right about that,” Bruce smiles at Jeremiah like he always does. “Not to say, of course, that I am not incredibly lucky to be in the privileged position I’m in. I’m grateful.”

Something in him slowly come undone as the conversation progresses. It is as pleasant as all their other conversations, but Jeremiah is freshly aware of the superficial nature that comes with simple pleasantness. Bruce and Jerome may yell at one another, but at least there is an honestly in that.

Jeremiah has begun to ponder if giving way to the same impulses his brother has would be good for him.

He ponders it, but he doesn’t agree with it. If Jeremiah had Bruce as he was, there wouldn’t be dried blood on the boy’s knuckles.

“Of course,” Jeremiah says, trying for more than approachable. Understanding, instead. “So,” he nods to Bruce’s nice and probably very expensive outfit. “Are you going somewhere tonight?”

Brue nods, setting the final plate down. “Jerome and I are spending the evening at a club with some friends.”

“That sounds nice,” Jeremiah forces.

“You could come if you like,” Bruce says, and Jeremiah turns to him with wide eyes.

“Yeah,” Jerome snarks, emerging from his room while buttoning up his own dress shirt. It’s an obnoxious red, and he leaves the top couple buttons undone. “You _should_ come along, Jeremiah. Bruce if you keep dragging those eyes along me like that, I’m gonna make us late.”

“ _Jerome_.”

Jeremiah shakes his head. “I don’t think–”

“I would really love it if you came, Jeremiah. We never get to spend time with one another,” Bruce says with earnest. Jeremiah looks at him once again.

Bruce looks incredibly handsome in all black, lit by the yellow and white lights that filter in from outside. 

“It might be a nice change of pace,” Jeremiah pushes some hair back into place.

Jerome laughs. Jeremiah deliberately does not look to him.

But Bruce smiles an honest smile, and he is suddenly very confident in his decision. “Great.”

“Should I change?” He gestures to his own sweater over a plaid dress shirt.

“Yes,” Jerome says at the same time as Bruce says “No, you look great.”

Jeremiah feels flushed, so he simply nods to Bruce.

“Okay, let’s go. I’m getting bored,” Jerome grumbles, walking out the front.

Bruce rolls his eyes with a grin. But he walks with Jeremiah.

“I have to be honest; I don’t think I’ve ever been to a club,” Jeremiah admits as he locks the door behind him.

Bruce fishes his own car keys out of his pocket. “Don’t worry. It’s not as intimidating as people imagine. Besides, Jerome and I usually don’t stay for too long. If you do want to leave earlier, just let me-”

“Shotgun,” Jerome calls, already at the passenger door of a sleek black car that looks like it costs ten times as much as Jeremiah’s mortgage.

Bruce doesn’t finish, instead heading to the car. Jeremiah reminds himself to put the sharp keys in his hand away.

He follows the newly discovered to be a billionaire down the few concrete steps and slides into the backseat behind Jerome. The interior is black leather that smells new. With only streetlamps lighting the interior, it’s a struggle to make out the details. He sees empty cardboard cups in the cupholders, but besides them it lacks much personality. Jeremiah is unexpectedly deflated at the realization that he still doesn’t know much about Bruce Wayne. He might as well be any Gotham citizen with access to a tabloid.

He does know Bruce goes clubbing with Jerome Valeska after beating his fists raw against the man’s face. That must mean something.

He also likes tea.

Jeremiah watches Bruce start the car and guide it into the street with one hand on the wheel. At the same time, Jerome reaches over and begins pressing buttons on the screen that sits between him and the driver. He fiddles with the radio, songs changing quickly, the air becoming warmer then cooler, other buttons Jeremiah doesn’t recognize but his brother seems to.

Jeremiah looks out the window, hands clenched against his slacks.

“Do you always have to touch every fucking–”

“Shut it,” Jerome interrupts Bruce, flipping to a new station. “I grew up poor, ya know.”

“Stop playing off my wealth quilt,” Bruce turns down a road that Jeremiah does not recognize.

“Well, you make it just too damn easy, darlin. You should loosen up, take less responsibility.”

Bruce lets out a short laugh, and Jeremiah realizes how easy it would be to strangle someone in a car when sitting behind them. “Just like how you take less responsibility for the people who die in the crossfire of your games with police?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I promise it’s fun.”

“For you. Not for other people.”

“No one knows how to have real fun anymore. They would like it if they weren’t too afraid to try it.”

Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “No, they wouldn’t, Jerome,” he mutters.

“He lives!” Jerome turns around awkwardly in his seat to look at him. “Are you excited? You should be. You _are_ an alcoholic.”

“What?” Jeremiah shakes his head and turns to look out the window again. “I am not.”

“You’re always drinking!”

“Well, I do have to put up with you,” Jeremiah retorts.

Then Bruce laughs again and Jeremiah’s head snaps back around to look at him. A fluttering sensation fills his abdomen, and he opens his lips in a silent gasp. He works to memorize the moment and the man immediately.

Jerome makes a face of disgust at Jeremiah, with his eyes blown wide and gazing at Bruce. “Jeez, defensive. I know a group of guys who would love to talk with you. Don’t worry – I hear they keep it anonymous.” He turns back around and places his hand on Bruce’s thigh. Possessively. “Hey, you know Jeri is performing next weekend?”

“That sounds good,” Bruce says, as he turns down a new road without slowing down or flicking on the turn signal. “Wait. It’s not another one of those shows for you, is it?”

Jeremiah gets the distinct feeling of a scream forming in his chest. He begins to count the beats of his breathing.

“They aren’t _for_ me, they’re _about_ me. But sadly no. It’s not.”

“Then we should go.”

“I know. That’s what I said.”

“And I’m agreeing with you.”

“No, you’re acting like it was your idea.”

“No, I am not.”

“It’s because of your big ego.”

“ _You_ are going to lecture me about ego?”

“Only people with big egos knowingly sleep with serial killers.”

“Only people with big egos are cult leaders.”

“You’re sexy when you’re frustrated.”

“I do hope you think so.”

Jerome’s laugh echoes around the car and it makes Jeremiah jump. The signs and people outside the window are indecipherable as they pass quickly by them until the car begins to slow. As he gazes on, Jeremiah sees a door with a neon purple umbrella on it. There is a line of people outside and a couple of large men at the front. On the other side of the bouncers is a small gathering of people that are difficult to see behind flashing cameras. Dread forms in his stomach at the sight of crowds and paparazzi. He finds people tedious and attention was never given to him with affection. Perhaps this was a bad idea.

But the car does not pull into the spaces that are being filled and left by others on the street in front of the building. Instead, they drive towards the back, behind delivery trucks and down a dead-end alley. There are a few cars lining one side of the brick walls, all looking as expensive as the one in which Jeremiah sits. There’s a door here too, with a single bouncer. It lacks any distinct marking, though, as well as a line. Jeremiah watches a couple walk in easily.

Bruce brings the car into a space at the end of the line of luxury vehicles, stopping rather abruptly.

“We’re here!” Jerome shouts into the backseat at Jeremiah. Then the man reaches up to grab Bruce by the back of the neck. He yanks him over to the passenger side so Bruce must throw his hand on the center console to catch himself, and takes his lips in a sloppy, greedy kiss. Bruce makes a startled noise that is muffled against Jerome’s lips, but terribly quickly, Bruce’s eyes slip shut and he kisses Jerome back fervently.

Jeremiah watches with a sharp glare as he yanks his seatbelt undone. He gets out of the car, sure to slam the door behind him.

Bruce follows him out quickly, and Jeremiah tries not to disillusion himself into thinking that means something.

He follows Bruce and Jerome, one moving as smooth as a shadow and the other with a bounce in his step that draws too much attention, to the door where the bouncer stops them.

“Mr. Wayne,” he greets in a tone without any inflection to indicate emotion.

“Evening, Howard,” Bruce responds, one hand in his pocket.

Howard looks at Jeremiah, but it’s fleeting. Instead, he stares at Jerome. “The boss ain’t gonna be happy to see him.”

Jerome throws an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, leaning enough weight against him so they sway on their feet together. Both are smiling like they’re in on the same joke that no one else on the planet could possibly understand. Jeremiah looks back to Howard. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, tell us something we don’t know, big guy.”

“We promise to keep to ourselves tonight. And I’ll pay for any damages-”

“Whatever, kid. The boss says he still owes you for last time.” He points to Jerome, the first movement the man has made since they approached the door. “That doesn’t mean I won’t throw you out if I get even a hint of trouble.”

Jerome suddenly stands up, back straight. He brings two fingers to his forehead and gives a salute. “Yes, sir,” he says in a taunting voice. Howard’s jaw tightens as he glowers at Jerome. But Jerome stares back with a dangerous smirk. The bouncer visibly swallows, and he stands to the side to let them in. Jerome ducks inside with Bruce, Jeremiah at their heels.

The bass of music reverberates through the walls and skin, straight to Jeremiah’s bones the moment he steps over the threshold. They make their way up a narrow staircase that only allows two people to stand side by side at a time. It’s lit in an intense purple, and Jeremiah must squirm around a couple making out against the wall. Jerome wolf whistles at them, Bruce tucked against his side.

Jeremiah decides he does regret saying yes to Bruce. But he can’t imagine saying no.

At the top of the stairs there are doors leading to bathrooms and a black curtain separating this short hallway from the main area. The curtain comes close to hitting Jeremiah after Bruce and Jerome slip through it in front of him. The heavy curtain had muffled the blaring music enough for the difference to make Jeremiah wince once he makes it past. The club is packed full, barely any room between people, mere inches separating them. Everything and everyone is lit by contrasting blue and orange lights that come from everywhere: the ceiling, the bar, under the booths. It does something marvelous to Bruce’s jawline.

Jeremiah cannot help but watch the two in front of him closely, so he sees how Jerome’s lips brush against Bruce’s ear as he leans down to say something over the music. When Jerome stands back up, Bruce nods to him, and then his brother slips away into the crowd.

Bruce turns back and smiles to Jeremiah, and Jeremiah fills the empty space Jerome left.

He walks with Bruce past the area that holds a bar with tables scattered across from it and into the area of the floor where people are pressed much closer together, dancing in front of a stage. Some are jumping to the beat, others grinding close together. Jeremiah gets shoved in every direction. He bumps into Bruce’s side four times. The stage itself houses a band playing something with a strong bass line and a woman who is not quite singing. Bruce leads Jeremiah past the stage also, to an alcove of a few booths that sit just behind and to the right of the stage, behind the speakers.

Each of the almost-private booths are occupied. The one in the very corner has two people sitting in it. A curly haired woman is scowling, looking incredibly bored as a red headed woman talks.

“Selina!” Bruce shouts from beside Jeremiah.

The curly haired woman’s eyes nap up to Bruce, excited. She is fast to slink from the booth and meet them halfway.

“Bruce! Thank _god_. I don’t think I can listen to Ivy talk for one more second about – who the hell are you?” She scrutinizes Jeremiah with sharp eyes and he immediately does not like her. Then her eyebrows shoot up with recollection and she addresses Bruce. “This is the other one?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bruce says. Jeremiah recognizes the shift in demeanor again, from whoever he had been when talking to the bouncer to whoever he is around Jerome and this girl. “Selina this is Jeremiah. Jeremiah this is Selina. She’s a friend of mine.”

Jeremiah raises his voice slightly to be heard over the music like they had. “How do you do?” he says, extending a hand.

She arches an eyebrow at it before slowly reaching out. “Yeah, okay, so what’s your deal? You as crazy as your brother?”

“No, he’s… different… from Jerome,” Bruce interjects. Jeremiah feels a warmth at the unintentional praise from the man. “Maybe you’ll get along.”

She looks at Jeremiah like she does not quite believe Bruce, like she recognizes him, or at least something inside him. “Doubt it,” she says.

Then Jerome comes up next to them and Bruce smiles and Jeremiah remembers that not being Jerome has become an unfortunate thing.

Jerome has two cocktails in his hands, and a full unopened bottle of liquor tucked under his arm. He hands one of the cocktails to Bruce, who begins drinking it the second his fingertips are around the glass.

“What, you didn’t bring me one?” Selina snaps to Jerome as a greeting.

“You wouldn’t have drunk it. And for good reason. I probably _would_ have poisoned it. Waste of good arsenic if you ask me.”

“Jerome,” Bruce warns.

“Freak,” Selina spits at him.

“Bitch.”

“Jeremiah!” Bruce interrupts. “Let me poor you a drink.” He grabs the bottle from Jerome and heads over to the table still occupied by the other women. Jeremiah hurries to follow. Selina stays behind to glare at Jerome while Jerome smiles his wicked smile back at her.

“Hello, Ivy,” Bruce greets when he gets to the table. He sets his cocktail down to twist the bottle open and pour it into an empty glass.

“Hey Bruce,” the woman purrs, chin resting in her hand. “Thank you again for talking to your company. It really was awful of them to be dumping in that area.”

“Of course,” Bruce hands Jeremiah the drink, and Jeremiah inhales sharply when their fingers brush. “If I had known their plans in the first place, I never would have let it happen.”

Like she is surprised at her own words, she responds, “I believe you.”

Jeremiah takes a drink and relishes the burn at the back of his throat. “Thank you, Bruce.”

Before the other can respond, Jerome is shoving his way between them to retrieve Bruce’s cocktail from the table and shove it back into his hands. “Drink,” he orders. “I wanna dance.”

The billionaire looks up at Jerome with a strange mix of amusement and annoyance. He obliges and wraps his lips around the glass to take a long sip. Jeremiah chugs the rest of his drink, backing away from Jerome.

“Really? You just got here,” Selina bites as she comes to sit in the booth beside Ivy. “You can’t hang out for one second before fucking in the middle of the dance floor.”

“Selina!” Bruce sounds scandalized. Jerome laughs.

“I’m just being honest,” she shrugs.

“And correct! Let’s go, darlin’” his brother says, grabbing Bruce’s arm and tugging at him. Some of Bruce’s drink spills onto the floor, but he downs the rest of it. He sets the empty glass down, shooting them each an apologetic smile. And then he’s gone with Jerome.

Selina sighs, and goes for the liquor bottle, drinking straight from it. Her and Ivy talk then, and Jeremiah tunes them out. Instead, he ponders the odd behavior of his brother and Bruce. The day has been strange and complicated and Jeremiah wants to hole himself up and think it all over until he has answers. Instead, he has found himself in the second most uncomfortable situation he has ever been in, proceeded by every time Jerome has held a knife while Jeremiah was in the room.

Somehow, he finds himself hating Jerome in this moment more than any other.

“So,” Jeremiah is reluctantly pulled from his thoughts when Selina loudly asks, “what do you do?”

“Uh, I’m an engineer.” Neither of them hears him, so he repeats himself.

“Cool.” She sounds bored. “Who do you work for?”

“I do contract work around the city.”

“That’s the best way to make money,” Ivy nods. “Loyalty is over-rated.”

Selina raises the bottle. “Cheers.”

“Oh, no. Not that kind of work,” he rushes. “I’m a structural engineer. I just do designs for corporate or government buildings.”

Selina laughs. “Wow. You really _don’t_ act like Jerome, huh?”

Jeremiah hears each word clearly. _Act_.

“I am nothing like Jerome,” he impulsively corrects.

Selina raises her eyebrows. “Sure.”

“I’m gonna go get something else to drink,” Ivy interrupts, staring intently at something behind Jeremiah when she gets up. He turns to see what it could be and finds that an older gentleman has stepped out from one of the other booths. Dressed in clothing and accessories that exude privilege, he watches Ivy sidle up to him, hand reaching over to lay against his chest.

“She better bring enough back for the rest of us, if she’s getting it from him,” Selina says.

Jeremiah turns back around. “She’s a thief?”

“Uh, yeah,” Selina looks like she’s about to laugh at him.

Jeremiah wonders if he could rationalize hurting her the way he has rationalized killing Jerome.

Ice treads its way through his veins at that rebellious thought. He pushes it away, pretending it is the first time he has ever had to do something of the like.

“This place is split pretty evenly between people like Bruce,” she continues. “And people like Ivy and me.”

“People like Bruce?” Jeremiah’s throat is beginning to hurt. He cannot remember the last time he had to raise his voice.

“Ya know, rich folks?” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And people who steal from rich folks?”

Motivated by an unjustified protectiveness, he can’t help but say “You and Bruce are friends?”

Selina eyes him like a cat eyes a mouse after deciding it has played with its food for far too long. Then her eyes drag themselves over his shoulder, and they darken furthermore. “Does that really surprise you?”

Jerome and Bruce come from behind him to slide into the booth, new drinks in their hands. Bruce places himself between Selina and Jerome.

“Where’s Ivy?” Bruce asks over the music.

“Probably funding a new greenhouse,” Selina answers and Bruce nods knowingly.

“How are you doing, Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah looks into Bruce’s eyes from across the table, and everything around him seems to dull. The music becomes quieter, the lights less blinding, the people superfluous.

“I’m doing well, thank you,” he lies without thought.

Jerome laughs and Jeremiah is savagely ripped from salvation.

“What’s funny?” Selina snaps.

“Everything.” Selina rolls her eyes and Jerome takes a drink. “But the idea of broski here having fun? _That_ is _especially_ humorous.”

The concept of one’s enemy’s enemy being a friend occurs to Jeremiah, but Jeremiah would really rather hate both of them.

“I have fun a lot, Jerome. You’re just always putting me in a bad mood.”

“Yeah right! You’re a, uh, a… Bruce,” he leans close to the man in question. “What’s that word? He’s a…” Jerome drags the vowel out, but Bruce shrugs and shakes his head, looking lost. Jerome groans and dramatically flings himself back. Then he shoots forward just as dramatically. “Oh!” He says and snaps his fingers. “A kvetch!”

“Ah,” Bruce nods. He looks at Jeremiah with a grin. “He’s saying you complain a lot.”

Any violent thoughts that could be directed at Jerome are overridden by his feelings for Bruce. “Is that Yiddish?” he asks.

“It is.”

“Do you speak it?”

Bruce nods. “I’m Jewish,” he explains.

Jeremiah rejoices at knowing even a little more about Bruce Wayne.

And Jerome must notice it in whatever expression has graced Jeremiah’s face because he slips his arm around Bruce’s waist. And Bruce leans against him. He and Selina begin to talk about something Jeremiah fails to comprehend, while Jeremiah stares at the exact place his brother and Bruce are making contact. He finally allows his mind to wander, the almost deafening noise of the music giving him the strange idea that not even who he considers to be his true self could overhear the gruesome thoughts. Deep down he knows that he is unfortunately always aware of the impulses that tempt him. Even further below that, he knows that the man who fantasizes and the man Jeremiah presents to himself and others are one in the same.

Another while spent lost in thought passes again, Jeremiah quiet and unobtrusive. Jerome is, uncharacteristically, almost doing the same. He allows Bruce to lounge against him while talking to Selina, doing nothing more than occasionally tugging on a strand of the brunet’s hair or reaching over to pluck Bruce’s drink from his hand for himself before replacing it. He does not say a word. Jeremiah is once again suffocated by misunderstanding.

Then Selina and Bruce laugh at something between them, and Jerome yanks Bruce from the booth with the arm he still has wrapped around the younger.

“Alright, let’s go! I’m getting, uh, _antsy_ ,” he settles on.

“We’re in the middle of talking,” Selina protests.

“Brucie and I are always in the middle of _something_ ,” he suggests lewdly.

“Jerome. Let me at least finish what I was saying,” Bruce says. Jerome looks as if he is about to protest, but Bruce reaches up to trace the pad of his thumb over the cut on Jerome’s lip. The cut he placed there. Jerome smirks, tongue darting out quickly to lick the tip of Bruce’s finger. Bruce remains unaffected.

“Fine. Only because you’ve got a mean left hook.”

Bruce turns to Selina who wears a glare like she has the patent for it. Before he can say anything, she snaps, “It’s fine. Just go.”

“Selina-”

“ _Go,_ Bruce.”

And that must be all the disagreement he is willing to handle because Jerome guides him away without being met with any resistance. Selina gets up suddenly and begins walking away.

“You comin’ or what?” She throws over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?”

She stops to look back at him. “The bar.” He is slow to answer, so she continues. “Look, I’m not asking you to come, but we’re out of alcohol, and you look like you need it.” Then she walks away.

Jeremiah finds that to be persuasive. Selina slips through the crowd effortlessly, and Jeremiah does his best to follow. When they make is to the bar top, she gives the bartender her order and says Jeremiah is paying. “You look like Bruce’s type,” she offers by way of explanation, looking to the watch he wears. It occurs to him just then, that he could be with his salary if only he really spent the money he earned, rather than it sitting uselessly in his bank account. He catalogs that as another reason his hands should be the ones all over Bruce.

They’ve just been handed their drinks after waiting in an uncomfortable silence that is made slightly more tolerable because both parties are acutely aware of the disdain the other has for them and their own returned hatred. That confidence is better than nothing. The music has quieted somewhat to something with just as heavy a bass line, but slower, the singer crooning more than before. Selina visibly tenses. Jeremiah raises his eyes.

Against a wall at the end of the bar, Jerome has Bruce tucked into a corner, giving the implication of modesty, but only the implication. Their lips are pressed together, Jerome eagerly kissing and biting, Bruce desperately doing the same. Bruce is pinned with a knee between his thighs and a hand wrapped loosely around the base of his throat, Jerome’s other arm is braced against the wall over his head. Bruce has both his hands fisted in Jerome’s shirt, dragging him closer despite the way they are already close enough to become one. He grinds his hips slowly against Jerome’s thigh, and in response Jerome pulls away to say something against Bruce’s cheek. The music drones on, but Bruce clearly laughs before slamming their lips back together in a kiss that is violent with a smile.

Jeremiah sees red.

He remembers a time when Jerome had taken one of Jeremiah’s stuffed animals, a fox he had gotten from one of the prize booths by some pitying employee. They were nine years old at the time. Jerome took it after Jeremiah refused to play with him, too busy with the books also given to him. Jerome kept bothering him, asking to play and when Jeremiah denied him, asked for one of his books because he had none for himself. Jeremiah said no again, not trusting his brother with his things. So, Jerome snatched his only stuffed animal and ran, leaving Jeremiah to chase after him. By the time he had finally found his brother in one of the dressing room tents, under a vanity used by trapeze artists, Jerome had taken hair clippers and cut the things head off. Jeremiah had wailed, and Jerome had laughed.

Sitting in the bar now, watching Bruce and his brother laugh against one another’s lips, Jeremiah wonders exactly how sharp hair clippers are.

He’s pulled from his fantasies by Selina’s scoff. When he looks at her, he sees lips pursed and eyes cast down. Jeremiah has limited his interaction with others, but he is perceptive, and like a train he is hit with familiarity.

“You’re in love with him.”

Her head snaps up, body recoiling. “What?”

“Bruce,” he says, some understanding seeping into him. “You’re in love with him.”

She watches Jeremiah, and what he realizes was fear is slowly replaced with something defensive; a cornered animal shifting to self-preservation. “Slow down.”

“You like him,” he corrects because he knows what liking Bruce Wayne does to somebody, and he knows he is looking at it.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Doesn’t everyone,” she says like a knife darts in and out of flesh.

Jeremiah swallows. “Why doesn’t he like you back?” he bites, but it isn’t what he means.

Selina lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. Jeremiah realizes that she, too, is perceptive, but much more experienced with people; she has come to understand Jeremiah too well, too quickly.

_Why doesn’t he like me instead?_

She shakes her head at him, and he thinks she is not going to answer.

But Jeremiah needs to understand something if not everything, and this question is an honest one. Perhaps, like the old circus employee, he can get her to pity him and throw something his way. “Why is he with Jerome?”

She studies the couple in question again, before tearing her eyes away, liking her lips. Then she looks at Jeremiah with pronounced displeasure.

“Bruce is one of the only good people I know. All the other good people I know got worn down into being bad. Bruce? He wants to save all of this lame city. I don’t' know, probably cause he had to watch his parents get shot dead in that alley. But anyways it’s impossible, he can’t save everybody. Most people would give up, but Bruce hasn’t. He stays good because he _compromises_. He could move on, be a cop or something dumb, but he keeps hanging around people like me and Jerome cause if he plays by our rules, every once in a while he can keep somebody from getting robbed or dying. It’s like he does really well with the cards he has, but he doesn’t play a different game. And I think he likes when he loses, too. We never change, and it’s reassuring for him. The kid’s good, but, man, is he weird.”

“But why _him_?”

“Bruce is the best guy in Gotham. And Jerome is the worst.”

“I could be worse,” he responds without thinking.

Her eyes narrow, regarding him. “I bet you could be,” she answers honestly. Then she throws her drink back. “But you're not. And they’ve sunk their hooks into one another too deep for anyone to pry them apart without a bloodbath. Sorry, man.” She gets up and goes to the end of the bar, slipping behind it when the bartenders are turned away, leaving Jeremiah alone.

He felt the pieces fall into place as Selina spoke. He thinks she’s right, and he hates her for it. Hates Jerome, also, and maybe himself. He knows he could be worse than his brother if only he hadn’t been so afraid of whatever it is that lurks beneath the surface of himself and tears its way through Jerome’s flesh. Then Bruce would come to _him_ and do pretty, clever things to stop him, and, when he couldn't, he would cling to Jeremiah like a god who holds the answers to all the most confusing and brutal questions.

Taking a drink of his whiskey he looks back to where Jerome and Bruce were, except the spot is now empty. Jeremiah feels a quick relief at not having to see them touching, but it does not last long enough to quell the sharp anger that chokes him.

Two drinks later and Bruce is suddenly at his side.

“Hello, Jeremiah,” Bruce yells with a bit of a slur. “You made it to the bar.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t snap at Bruce. “How are you doing?” he asks over the music that has reverted back to undecipherable and head pounding.

“Great,” he smiles. “Have you seen Jerome? I lost-”

Someone lets out a scream loud enough to be heard over the music from somewhere impossible to pinpoint.

“He must be joking-”

Jerome emerges from the crowd that has begun to move somewhat frantically, and Bruce stops speaking in favor of glaring at him.

“We should probably get going,” Jerome insists, picking up an abandoned drink, inspecting it closely before swallowing all of it.

“What did you do?” Bruce demands, sober. Jeremiah wonders what motivation a person could have for faking intoxication.

“Relax, darlin’. I didn’t kill anybody. At least, I don’t think so. I don’t know, I didn’t really stick around.”

“We were having a good time.” Maybe it’s simply playing pretend, he considers, like a child does for fun.

“We still are!” Jerome claps his hand onto Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Aren’t we, Jeremiah?” He looks at the glass Jeremiah has kept full.

Before he can respond, there is a shout from Bruce. “Oswald!” Jeremiah looks to see that he has planted a smile on his face, arms thrown in the air in greeting.

A man, shorter than Jeremiah himself with jet black hair and a paisley suit limps towards them with a scowl.

“Hey, the penguin! Ol’ buddy ol’ pal! How ya’ been?” Jerome greets.

“Mr. Wayne,” he forces through a tight smile. “Mr. Valeska,” he bites. “I’ve had better evenings.”

“Aw, what’s got you down?” his brother asks with furrowed brows and mock concern.

“Well,” the man jerks around to Jerome. “Someone in my club just got _stabbed_ in the _back_ quite literally!” he snarls.

Bruce does not react.

“Yeesh,” Jerome tugs at his collar. “That sounds tough. Well, I hope you get that worked out.”

“We were just leaving,” Bruce adds.

“See that you do. And maybe next time, Mr. Wayne, you could take a stroll through the front again? Past the cameras?” he suggests without real question.

Bruce’s eyes linger on the man. “Sure.”

They exchange a thin-lipped, disingenuous smile, and Jeremiah takes a step back to remind everyone that they are moments from walking out. It seems to work, as Bruce clutches Jeremiah’s upper arm to lead him out. Jeremiah’s eyes go wide. Bruce’s smile becomes a scowl once they’re no longer facing anyone. Jeremiah thinks he looks beautiful. When they walk down the stairs they are pressed together, and Jeremiah wants to live in this space forever. They regrettably spill out into the alley, and Bruce’s hand burns through his clothes, keeping him warm against the open air that is much cooler than the crowded club from which they just came.

Bruce stops at his car and turns expectantly as Jerome saunters too quickly to be nonchalant up to them. Bruce does not let go of him and only now does Jeremiah feel intoxicated. Jerome’s eyes flick between Bruce’s eyes and his hand.

“You haven’t even heard my side of the story,” Jerome jokes once he has come to stand before them.

Bruce scoffs. Shaking his head, he lets go of Jeremiah to get into the car. He almost reaches out after him.

Jerome’s smile dissipates when he looks at Jeremiah, but he swiftly walks away to get into the passenger side. Jeremiah is last to follow.

In the car, Bruce’s driving is more reckless than before. Without looking, he backs out of the alley, and begins driving back towards Jeremiah’s house.

“Who was it?” Bruce finally breaks.

“Oh, I don’t know his name,” Jerome smiles.

The light turns red ahead of them moments before they enter the intersection.

Jerome makes a show of yawning and shrugging. “He was talking about you.”

“What?” Bruce looks over to Jerome, neglecting the road entirely.

“He was saying some very ungentlemanly things about you.” He throws his feet on the dash as he says it. Jeremiah rolls his eyes.

They linger in the silence and Jeremiah tries to pretend it is just he and Bruce in the car.

“I can take care of myself,” Bruce says quietly.

Jerome laughs, also quiet. “I know.”

They get to his house objectively shortly after, but Jeremiah feels as if he was tortured for a lifetime.

Once the car pulls to stop in front of the house, Jerome is quick to go inside, muttering about dying of starvation. Jeremiah is disappointed that Jerome has decided to stay through another night rather than galivanting around with his friends and followers. If it means Bruce will stay longer, though, Jeremiah cannot complain.

He is walking up the steps, jaw clenched because his brother left his key in the front door when he feels a touch that echoes itself on his upper arm. He turns to see Bruce looking down at the concrete, casting his eyes up occasionally to Jeremiah.

Jeremiah steps closer to him and it is not nearly enough.

“Thank you,” Bruce says. “for coming. Sorry things got a little... out of hand.”

“I’m glad I got to be with you,” Jeremiah hears himself say. He should not have said it.

Bruce looks up at him, eyes wide. Then the expression is gone, and Bruce hurries past him into the house, after Jerome. It is like he was never there, and Jeremiah clutches the memory in not yet bloody hands, grateful that at least it won’t slip. Jeremiah looks up at the starless sky with a heavy, deep inhale. He holds it long enough to feel like he is suffocating, then he releases it.

Inside, the door to Jerome’s room is already shut, and the noises from behind it Jeremiah recognizes with ease. Hearing it, while frustrating, is not as bad as seeing it. Jeremiah can pretend this way. With the image of Bruce’s wide eyed gaze carved into his memories, it is easy to imagine it from above the man laid out against a mattress. He melts at the idea. He sits on the couch and, desperately, Jeremiah tries to imagine what kissing Bruce feels like. Shame does not even threaten him.

Much later, in a daze of being almost asleep, the door to Jerome’s room creaks open. Jeremiah jolts from his already stiff position on the shitty, drab couch, muscles aching. Jerome is filling a glass with water, drinking all of it in gulps. He leaves the empty glass on the counter, not even in the sink, and Jeremiah wants to kill him.

Deciding he should at least move to his own room, Jeremiah gets up. He thinks Jerome might ignore him for the first time ever, too blissed out from alcohol, murder, and sex. But naturally Jerome is unpredictable when he states, “He only touched you to make me jealous.”

The kitchen is small, and Jeremiah is already alert with rage. He hears Jerome clearly. Still, he says, “what?”

The white of his teeth glow in the dim kitchen. “He only touched you to make me jealous.” His brother sighs longingly. “He knows me so well.”

“Shut up, Jerome,” Jeremiah murmurs, yet he wants Jerome to keep talking. He wants Jerome to give him a reason to wrap his hands around the man’s throat.

“I mean, sure, he thinks you're smart. And nicer than I am. But he doesn’t like you how he like me. You’re far too boring for Bruce.”

The words are too similar to what Selina said in that obnoxious club. There is a surreal moment under stars that, despite not seeing them, Jeremiah _knows_ exist and it is inserted between these words; words that quell any hope ignited into him from a moment like that. He is not delusional; the stars are there, and Bruce could fall in love with him. Yet, here Jerome stands, denying him, once again. That’s enough motivation for Jeremiah.

Close to the sink, Jeremiah snatches the knife off the drying rack and lunges at Jerome. He slashes it to the side and Jerome jumps out of the way with surprise painted across his face.

“See, now _that_ is interesting,” he says, and Jeremiah tries to stab him again.

The knife fits very nicely into his hand he notes as he shoves it towards Jerome’s throat. His brother has far more experience, though. Jerome ducks under and around Jeremiah, grabbing his arm on his way. Jeremiah feels a sharp jolt of pain flash through his arm as it’s twisted back unnaturally. He inhales through clenched teeth and without thinking drops the knife. He hears it clatter to the floor right before Jerome lets him go. Jeremiah quickly turns around to see Jerome has picked it up. There is a quick flash of a smile before his brother shoves him, so Jeremiah slams back against a wall, hitting his head. Jerome points the blade at his throat ensuring Jeremiah does not move too far.

“Well, finally,” Jerome snickers. “I thought it would take you forever to break. But I knew you’d come around eventually. Who knew it would take a pretty rich kid with a savior complex to do you in?”

This time Jerome is pointing a knife at him, Jeremiah is not scarred, only furious. “Get the fuck away from me,” he hisses.

“Look at you,” Jerome laughs. “Really acting like yourself.”

Jeremiah instinctively goes to deny that, but it feels rather pointless in the dark kitchen.

“Ya know, I really wasn’t too surprised,” Jerome continues, gesturing with the knife as he does. “I mean, hell, look how similar we are. And if Bruce Wayne can drive _me_ crazy, you were hopeless.”

“What does that mean?” Jeremiah spits.

Jerome raises his eyebrows. “Do I really have to explain it? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius.” Jerome raps his knuckles against Jeremiah’s head, adding pressure to his already injured skull. Jeremiah reaches up to grab the knife, but Jerome twirls it deftly in his fingers. If Jeremiah tries to grab it now, he’d slice his own hand open. Jerome shakes his head at him like a disapproving parent. “If you practiced more, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Like you make Bruce?” Jeremiah lashes out, eyeing Jerome’s still split lip and purple jaw. Jerome just looks confused. Jeremiah is consumed with desire and hatred; he wants Jerome to understand just how deep his hatred goes. He elaborates, “you make him hit you. Make him violent like you.”

There is a look of recognition before Jerome rolls his eyes. “I _let_ him hit me. It’s good for him.”

“He’s a good person,” Jeremiah insists, Bruce’s welcoming smile and Selina’s words echoing in his head.

“Oh, sure,” Jerome mocks. “He’s a real hero just cause he doesn’t kill people.”

Jeremiah almost shouts when he says, “He is. And you ruin him.”

Jerome puts a finger over his own lips and hushes him. “Brucie is sleeping,” he whispers.

He immediately feels more than willing to cover his hands in his own blood if they would also be covered in his brother’s. “Don’t pretend like you’re good for him, like you deserve to be with him.” Jerome’s face falls into something incredibly and dangerously stoic as Jeremiah speaks. “You don’t.”

Jerome is still as he watches Jeremiah. There is not even the movement of a breath. After only a hair too long, moonlight glints off the knife as Jerome moves, smiling once more. “Who’s to say what any of us really deserve. But, uh, you’re probably right. I’ll give you that one,” he jokes.

Jeremiah wants to scream. But Bruce is asleep. “Why are you even with him?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m in love with him.”

“That’s impossible,” he scoffs. Jerome is a monster.

“You’d like to think so, huh?” his brother says, almost serious.

It rattles Jeremiah’s bones. Uncomfortable he deflects. “He can’t love _you_ back. He won’t stay with you.” Jeremiah remembers Bruce grabbing his arm and looking up at him on the doorstep.

“What? Are you gonna try to turn him against me? Like you did with mom?” Jerome chuckles. “Yeah, sorry, that’s not gonna happen. See, unlike that whore, Brucie is smart. He’ll see right through you. Oh!” Humor drains from his brother’s voice as he leans forward with the knife. “And if I catch you trying, I’ll kill you.”

With a lack of anything else to do, knife far too close to his skin, Jeremiah glares at Jerome.

Once he seems satisfied with the point he has made, Jerome takes a few steps away from Jeremiah, towards his bedroom where Bruce lays.

“You know,” he stops, still gesturing with the knife, still smiling. “If you want to try to sleep with him when I’m dead, he’d probably say yes. Despite whoever he has convinced you and everyone else he is, Bruce really is quite a menace. I have the scars to prove it,” he laughs.

The moment Jerome is finally gone, Jeremiah turns around and slams his fist into the wall. He fails to make even a dent. He feels his knuckles begin to bruise, but adrenaline keeps him from regret. Besides, it might be wise to begin getting accustomed to the feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure you could tell while reading, but this was incredibly self-indulgent. I would still love to know any and all thoughts, so please leave a comment or a kudos if you've got the time!  
> I wasn't originally planning on writing more of this, but some ideas came to me towards the end, so we'll see. I might do a really short sequel.  
> I can not believe I'm writing fanfic again.


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